It Takes a Mother

By Carolyn A. Vance

IT TAKES A MOTHER grants an intimate view into a young woman’s struggle to balance her life’s purpose with love for her husband and children. Set in the tumultuous civil rights era of the 1960’s, she joins a black movement that fights a legal battle to force the powerful television industry to become racially inclusive. But her personal life is shattered by family alienation, attempted rape, life threatening disease, and failed relationships. Finally she realizes that not only Americas’ but her own soul must be saved. With this shift in focus, an extraordinarily enlightened Mother comes to the rescue and triggers a miraculous awakening that transforms her into higher realms. Equipped with new capabilities, she joins a team of Native American friends who, in spite of poverty and difficult living conditions, are a community of people so fully connected to their spirit that their relationships are deep and joy giving. The joy spills over into her other world and leads to an exquisite outcome.

It Takes a Mother is an unexpected trip into the human soul that demystifies ancient spiritual knowledge and empowers the reader with divine universal truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716938856

Book preview

nations.

Chapter 1

Silvia was eleven when an extraordinary message floated like ether into her attention. It wasn’t conveyed in voices like those that came to Joan of Arc. Yet it was crystal clear. Help end racism.

Inspired by Wonder Woman comic books and activist parents, she was already a warrior for justice. Her anti-racism outrage was fueled by a powerful empathy, as if she’d once been a slave herself. Anyone – child or adult – that used the ‘N’ word in her presence was subjected to a scathing lecture pointing out their confusion.

With her mission confirmed, a growing sense of purpose accelerated her maturity. She began to wonder about who it was that gave her this mission. The message had to be divine coming as it had. Maybe an angel had spoken to her.

Silvia wasn’t particularly religious; at least not in a church-going way. Her parents didn’t like the denominations they grew up with – Methodist for father and Catholic for mother – yet they agreed there was a Great Spirit who ran the show called life. And they wanted the community of like-minded friends that went with membership in a church. At the beginning of their marriage, they set out to find a faith that better fit their beliefs as well as their personalities.

Their research was still under way when their four children came into the world. Silvia, the second born, attended Sunday school with Presbyterians, Quakers, and Lutherans and Saturday school with Jews. Ultimately her parents declared the Unitarian Church the winner because its only dogma was that every member was responsible for seeking truth.

This church remained the chosen one after Silvia’s marriage to her high school sweetheart, Frank Nolan, and the births of their beloved children. They liked the kids’ Sunday school because it explored nature’s miracles and the wisdom of all of the well-known religions. But Silvia and Frank seldom attended regular Sunday services. Frank preferred playing golf as the way to uplift himself, while for Silvia, it was in the church meeting rooms filled with kindred souls fighting racism that made her feel in league with God.

It was an intense era for the fight, and Silvia recognized that no matter how difficult the struggle, she was lucky to have been born into such a time. Dr. Martin Luther King’s resistance strategies that had gone on for years, had finally hit the headlines. The most shocking event – one that changed the nation – was when black children marched for desegregation in Birmingham. Millions of Americans, via television, watched in horror as police used fire hoses that knocked the children down and tore off their clothes. Some were sloshed down sidewalks and over parked cars by the powerful jet streams. American children were being harmed by their supposed protectors. For a finale, the police let loose their attack dogs, further terrifying the children and shocking the nation’s conscience.

President Kennedy spoke for the majority when he said the scenes made him sick to his stomach. He immediately initiated legislation that even after his assassination, became law. Every public facility in America, including schools, restaurants, hotels and swimming pools, had to be made available to all races. Silvia knew laws didn’t mean much until they were implemented. But the 1964 Civil Rights Act provided hope and ammunition for Silvia and her fellow warriors to accelerate the legal war.

It was six o’clock – dinner time – that fateful night. Silvia stood over the stove, raw burger in one hand, ready to heat up the fry pan with the other. The kids had been fed early and were happily sprawled on the living room couch, eyes glued to Woody Woodpecker cartoons.

Suddenly, a voice blasted over the TV: We interrupt this program to bring you a special news report.

Ignoring the muck on her hands, Silvia raced to hear the news. The announcer spoke in slow, staccato words: Martin Luther King has been shot dead.

Oh God! Her hand flew to her chest. Alarm. Fear. Grief. Dazed, she flopped down beside her daughter. The boys, annoyed by the interruption, clamored for their cartoons to come back. Linda touched her mother’s cheek.

Mommy, what’s the matter?

She pulled herself out of shock and chose her words carefully to avoid upset. A very great man has been hurt – but don’t worry. She was glad the cartoons resumed before Linda could ask more questions. I’ll be upstairs.

Perched on the end of the bed, Silvia turned on the radio. Dr. King had stood with friends on a motel balcony when a sniper’s bullet shot him in the face with such force he flew backwards onto the concrete. A white man was detected running away from the scene. His friends had rushed their beloved leader to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced dead.

Heat gripped her throat, her stomach churned. Gone was the great saint who led the way without violence – God, there’ll be hell to pay for this. She laid down and curled into a tight ball but her apron twisted around her hip and she remembered the uncooked burgers left on the counter. As she struggled upright to get back to work, relief came.

Daddy’s home! the kids shouted.

Where’s Mommy? Frank asked.

Up. Linda pointed. "She’s sad.

In a flash he was in the bedroom. I heard the news driving home. He pulled her into his arms and studied her face. Are you okay?

Numb – needed quiet. But dinner . . . it’s not finished. He brushed his fingers gently through her curls. His warmth soothed some of her tension but the thought of food made her gag.

Forget dinner. I’ll take the kids out for ice-cream and grab a bite there. Although Frank didn’t feel compelled to fight for racial justice, he was especially kind in times of tragedy.

With the house clear, she turned on the TV. Riots were already underway in D.C. Bands of black teenagers paraded into Peoples Drug store and came out laden with bags of whatever they yanked off the shelves. Down the street, black men threw bricks into a liquor store window and cleared the shelves, right before the eyes of the viewing public. Her heart beat faster; perspiration wetted her arm pits.

Then the news got even worse. The TV networks went nation-wide and showed similar black mobs assembled in the streets of Baltimore, New York, Chicago and nearly every city in America. Shivers shot up her spine. After this live show of ruthless destruction and violent looting by blacks, what would happen to the newly gained public sympathy for integration?

For an entire week, when the kids were in school, a horrified Silvia watched as the riots continued, fully covered by radio, TV, newspapers and magazines. Defiant black men, women and children looted stores, smashed cars and burned down buildings, ironically in their own ghetto neighborhoods. It was a war zone. Smoke from fires filled the skies as tanks rolled down streets manned by gun-toting soldiers. Police, their faces masked in protective gear, let loose tear gas on hordes of rioters, who coughed and grabbed their faces, frantic to reach breathable air.

The reaction to the murder of Dr. King was not only spontaneous. It was savage and in-your-face bold. The facts could not be denied. Black Americans would no longer contain their deep frustration and rage.

Initially Silvia’s dread merged with that of the masses. Then, from somewhere unknown, a sliver of hope crept into her attention. The riots were causing fear that the violence would spread into suburban neighborhoods. That fear could goad racism fighters – like herself – into a state of emergency. A state she knew most black Americans had been in for a very long time.

Within a week, her wish came true. An emergency meeting was called for the board members of the Unitarian churches that ringed Washington, D.C.

When she arrived at the nearly full conference room, Silvia nodded hello but maintained silence; the usual friendly chit-chat didn’t feel right. The atmosphere was charged with restlessness. Something important was about to happen.

Harry Pine, the chairman, stood waiting to begin. In his mid-fifties, temples laced with gray brought out the blue in his eyes and dimples showed when he flashed one of his frequent smiles. His job as a project manager for the Central Intelligence Agency, and his friendly demeanor, won him the coordinator role for this group of white civil servants and housewives. He began with his usual straight talk.

None of us came to agonize over the slaying of Dr. King or the riots. Instead, we’ve come to forge an action response to the tragic evil caused by racism. A team of us have put together a project we hope the rest of you will endorse. For this project to succeed our commitment in volunteer time is essential. Even more important is for each of us liberal white folks to find and purge our own condescending attitudes; like the belief that we know what’s best for others.

Blood rushed to Silvia’s face. His remarks were about last year’s seminar when she had been shocked and embarrassed by the truth about why white people tended to be judgmental. The problem had come over with the Puritans. They had a mistaken religious belief that all people were born evil: sin is within. Since nobody wanted to see their own evil, fear of introspection became the societal norm. Even in modern times, that norm stayed intact. It was selfish to introspect. No navel contemplation allowed.

For Silvia, it was a eureka discovery. As a mother she knew children were not born evil. How could she have been so brain-washed into adopting such an ugly notion? There was no way to fix her own mistakes if she didn’t look at them.

Equipped with the freedom to self-correct, she began to pay attention to her own conduct and often caught herself doing things she didn’t like. One of the worst was when she dumped anger on the children when they (surprisingly) didn’t do anything wrong. Instead the anger had spilled over from an unresolved argument with her sister.

Although her pride took a beating, it was outweighed by the virtue she felt when the change in herself was for the better.

Harry’s team proposed to hire a black person to determine what needed to be done to solve problems brought about by racism. The project would be defined and implemented solely under black leadership. Black direction only. The Unitarians would supply the money and volunteer workers.

Excitement flooded Silvia. This project felt divinely inspired. She was eager to get involved.

When she got home, Frank was asleep. His six foot athletic body was sprawled across most of the bed; his rumpled brown hair made his handsome features look boyish. She wanted to kiss him awake and share the exciting news. But experience had taught he wasn’t interested in her fight for justice, especially when he had to get up early for work.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Frank’s disinterest bothered her. Yet why should she be bothered? He was racist himself when they first met. He used the N word frequently and made snide remarks until he finally quit to escape Silvia’s tongue lashings about the irrationality of his bigotry. It wasn’t that she could not love a racist; they simply had crossed wires in their thinking that needed to be untangled.

Sure enough, Frank’s attitude changed, partly in response to Silvia’s logic but mostly due to black players who joined his college football team. They became some of his best friends. So why didn’t he applaud her efforts to rid others of those same racist attitudes? Like every human, Frank had to have been born with a desire to make the world a better place.

Something must have happened when he was a boy to shut him down.

To drill deeper for an answer would require pacing. She eased out of bed, slipped into her robe and tiptoed downstairs. With lit cigarette, she paced around the rooms – not a large space in their small Cape Cod. The beige wool carpet looked worn. Or was that just dirt? Tomorrow she would clean a bit; wipe the fingerprints off the wall by the telephone.

She exhaled and snuffed out the butt. So what caused Frank’s indifference to saving the world? His father was a kind, soft-spoken man who was mostly cheerful. But she’d seen his fear of the unknown. One incident was particularly creepy. She and Frank were on their way to his new job in Idaho. They said their goodbyes and were headed to the car, when Frank’s father shouted, Wait! He grabbed Frank by the arm. With tears in his eyes, he begged his son not to go. What if it’s not a nice place? What if the people are no good? It wasn’t just a case of being too attached to his son. He was genuinely afraid of what might be out there.

Frank wasn’t going into outer space; he was going to Idaho. Silvia would have joked about the incident when they were underway, except for the shattered look on Frank’s face. He wouldn’t speak for the first hour of the drive and made it clear he didn’t want to talk about his father’s excessive fears.

His mother was kindhearted, but often tortured herself and everyone around her with worry. Her stress reached shrill levels when Frank went out of town with his football team. She fretted the whole time he was gone, afraid their bus might crash or Frank would get hurt in the game. Once on a cold day, Silvia stayed inside with her mother-in-law to keep warm while they watched Frank fix a flat tire. What if the car falls off the jack? He’ll be crushed! Silvia was shocked at the intensity of fear over such a simple task.

She lit another cigarette and contemplated. How difficult it must have been for Frank as a child. To be constantly bombarded with worry would undermine anyone’s self-confidence. No wonder Frank had no incentive to help build a better world; he didn’t realize he could have any impact. And he probably worried that if he tried anything, he would be hurt in some way.

Her heart swelled with compassion for Frank – and for his parents – who no doubt got saddled with their fears from their own parents.

God, what harmful stuff was she laying on her own kids? She quickly snuffed her cigarette and hurried up to bed lest she lie all-night pondering that one.

Chapter 2

In less than two months, ten black applicants for the job of director of the Unitarian project were thoroughly vetted by Harry Pine’s team, CIA style. As secretary, Silvia took notes during the interviews and verified the financial information supplied by the applicants. Harry taught her to use code with bank officers to verify candidates’ account balances. She had a hard time being serious when to verify $1,000, it was against the rules to say the exact amount. She had to ask if the balance was in the middle or low four figures. Obviously, bankers loved being covert and spy-like about money. They didn’t think of money as a utility, like water and electricity.

Competition among the nine men and one woman who applied was intense. The job not only offered creative freedom with minimal oversight by a board of directors, it offered an annual wage of twice the medium income at $15,000 plus $10,000 for project expenses. Silvia scoffed at some of the recommendation letters that so exaggerated a candidate’s qualities that even a deity could not have achieved such lofty heights.

But one candidate rose above the others, not for his scholarly credentials, political connections nor level of commitment to the cause. All the candidates were deeply committed and anxious to come up with strategies that would improve black lives. It was his ability to communicate well with a wide range of socio-economic types – from intellectuals to what he called street dudes – that won him the job. At age thirty-seven, John Darnell had worked as an auto shop owner, an air force sergeant and before age twenty-one, as a pimp.

As soon as notice came that he’d set up the office, Silvia telephoned.

Hello. This is Unity House. His baritone voice sounded like he was smiling, not formal or distant. Silvia could be herself.

What a great name! Reflecting for a moment, she continued with passion, really, really great. She paused, allowing space for John to respond. When he didn’t, she continued. Okay, I’m calling to volunteer to do whatever needs doing. I’m Silvia Nolan.

Silvia who?

Nolan. We met at one of your many interviews. I’m with the team of Unitarians that wanted this project to happen.

Oh yes, I remember you. You’re the first to volunteer. Come on down. How about tomorrow at ten o’clock? Short and sweet.

I’ll be there. She put her hand on her heart to calm the pounding. This is it! In the past, her work to end racism required persistence and patience since laws had to be changed. Unity House felt urgent; dynamic.

Her enthusiasm soared; then plunged. How would she get there? The office was in the city. The bus took too long. She would have to drive Frank to work to have a car and leave Unity House at two o’clock to be home by three when the kids got home. By four o’clock, they would all have to pile into the station wagon to fetch Frank home. But no matter all the driving; the cause was so important.

Then worry churned her stomach when she telephoned Frank at work to ask for his agreement with the plan. When he said yes, she gave thanks to God. It wasn’t as if she had a plan B. Like many young families, Frank’s salary barely covered living expenses. The options of hiring a regular babysitter or buying a second car could not be put on the table.

When she arrived at Unity House, Silvia was astonished to find a neighborhood undergoing classic gentrification. Small, dilapidated homes sandwiched between elegantly renovated townhouses seemed ironic since they were directly in sight of the U.S. Capitol where the fight for equal opportunity for all was supposed to take place. No doubt the run down homes were rentals occupied by poor people, mostly blacks, who soon would be driven out by skyrocketing market values.

Unity House was in a one-story brick townhome; its white paint fashionably antiqued. A gold designer porch lamp was mounted beside a freshly painted red door with gold latch and knocker. A recently trimmed boxwood hedge marked a tiny plot of well-kept grass on either side of the entrance walk.

Inside, a large plate glass window had been cut into the front room, providing extra light to the two small desks, large work table and file cabinet. A small oval cherry-wood table was centered under the window. It held a full pot of fresh coffee, filling the sunny space